Valley of the Shadow
by Laatija
Summary: Murphy fell first. She was there, only a few feet from him. Connor went down next. Massive tag to All Saints Day.Gonna bust some hot Irishmen out of jail...
1. Chapter 1

I dunna own Boondock Saints. But I have just recently become obsessed with'm - hence the the story that I'm about to give to ye. It ain't finished and I dunna know when it will be but this part was begging to be set free so well...here ya go...It takes place during and after the ending of the second film, All Saints Day. Enjoy.

**Saint's Angel**

The air was charged with fear and stank of adrenalin. It seemed as though very police issued shot gun and 9mm berretta was aimed at the door as _they_ walked out. Amy's fingers flinched against the cold metal of her rifle as they stepped out of the door and walked slowly to the end of the porch. A heaviness surrounded them, making their boots thunk down on the weathered boards with a particular solidity. She thought that in the first few moments, the brothers didn't even see the army of policemen spread out before them. Their eyes were blank. She could see it clearly from behind the three SWAT bodies that were kneeled in front of her.

She was only a few feet from the Irishmen. Mere feet away, the brothers had stopped. They were looking all around now, slowly turning until they stood back to back. Even still, full comprehension was not in their eyes. Other things were crowding out that sort of understanding. Things like pain and exhaustion and…sadness. It was a sadness that screamed out from the slumped shoulders and thick breathing and red eyes and complete silence.

The sound of government issued boots and the synthetic hiss of tac vests was the only sound for several moments – or rather, one moment that seemed to stretch out into oblivion. Connor MacManus turned his head, starting to absorb the situation fully now. Amy felt as though, in this moment, the brothers could have done bloody well anything they wanted to and the police, caught up in this spell of horror, would simply do nothing. And then his eyes met hers.

Understanding exploded upon her. Sheer sorrow and agony shot past the reddened eyes and dug deep into his very being, festering there like a mad beast. He suddenly looked very very old – like a man who had seen enough blood and death to last him ten lifetimes. Amy's heart snapped in two. And then she took a breath as his eyes glazed over and turned away.

SWAT was flooding the house, bubbling through the door behind the brothers like black blood welling up in a blindingly fresh wound. Resignation pulled Connor's arms up on marionette strings and his guns dropped from limp hands. Even before the metal left the leather fingers, Murphy was doing the same. Three guns dropped to the muddy ground as blood pooled around their feet from god knows how many bullet holes.

A second passed. Then two.

Still, the police made no move towards them. Amy could guess what was going through their heads – it was hounding her as well. No one wanted to arrest these men. The Saints… they had answered every bitter prayer for justice when the lawyers and judges sat on their fat butts and let monsters go free – men whom Amy and countless other cops had worked endless hours to put away. If the Saints were behind bars, they'd all be back to square one. Duty called but no one wanted to answer.

Murphy fell first.

With a pained grunt, his left leg finally gave out and he slumped to the ground, staring despondently at them. His legs were splayed out like a broken doll. Amy wasn't sure if Connor fell from exhaustion or if it was a clumsy move to support his brother. Either way, he ended up on his knees with Murphy halfway in his arms to keep the other twin from face-planting in the mud. He clutched at his brother, holding him awkwardly, desperately, as if Murphy would just melt away if he wasn't careful enough. Tears were leaking down his face. He was looking at Amy again for another split second with those sad, weary eyes that were pinched with pain now.

Bleeding out. They were bleeding out and exhausted and grief-stricken and Amy couldn't understand why no one made a move to help them yet. This is how they thanked the vigilantes? By letting shock numb every single cop on the property while their saviors bled to death? So why wasn't _she_ moving?

Amy snapped herself out of her shock and pulled off her helmet and goggles. She let the rifle swing free on the shoulder strap and stepped out of formation. The chief would chew her out for this later but she didn't seem to be able to care. No one made a move to stop her as she approached the brothers with outstretched hands and slow steps. She crouched down until her knees touched crimson mud. Both of the MacManus brothers were watching her with wary expressions. She pulled off her gloves and put a hand on Connor's shoulder. His was as tense as high tinsel wire. There was a slight constant tremble shaking through his body. They did not break eye contact and it was like a flood of agony being pushed through a conduit from one body to the other. Amy felt the pressure of tears building behind her eyes. He looked now like a child, lost and almost alone, clinging to the only friend left in the world. Murphy wasn't looking at her anymore. His eyes were closed and his breathing was labored. Connors fingers were wound up in his brother's bloody shirt. He looked like he wanted to collapse if only the fate of the world didn't rest on his shoulders…if only a hundred policemen weren't pointing guns at him and his next of kin.

She instinctively put another hand behind him and felt him stiffen further, as if such a thing were possible. "Relax," she breathed. "I'm not going to hurt you…" The words were husky in her throat. "It's over now. You can relax." She heard the lie in her own voice and his eyes reflected the pain of disbelief. It's over now? Hardly. It was far from over. Even so, he melted back against her hand and she exerted more force to keep him upright, shifting her hand so that her arm supported his shoulders.

"Murph…" the voice was almost soft enough that Amy couldn't hear it. Connor cleared his throat before continuing. His voice had some resemblance of strength when he spoke again. "Murph needs a doctor," he said slowly. "We have a'Mexican in the building. Please…please make sure he's still…alive." Connor closed his eyes and clenched his teeth at the last bit, seemingly trying to not think about the prospect of a dead Mexican.

Amy just nodded. His breathing hitched and his eyes screwed tighter in pain. She imagined the adrenalin wearing off and winced sympathetically. "Hang on," she muttered. "Help's coming."

His chest jerked sporadically beneath her arm and it took her several seconds to realize he was laughing. Hysteria danced across his face. "Help…ya bringing us help, are ye?" he said around his frenzied laughter. Amy felt a stab of guilt. Of course…the help the police would give would be from a prison cell with a pack of angry criminals breathing down their necks, waiting to do more damage the second the warden's back was turned. Some help…

"'s not funny…" Murphy suddenly muttered. Amy didn't realize he was still conscious. He glared up at her and she turned away in shame. Connor stopped laughing.

She heard the paramedics before she saw them. The squeaky wheels of a gurney and the hurried steps of profession care givers signaled their presence. They swarmed the porch and immediately laid hands on Murphy. There was a flash of panic across Connors face and his hands tightened across his brother. Amy gently squeezed his shoulder, hoping that he wouldn't snatch up a gun and start shooting again. The moment passed and Connor resentfully let them pry his brother out of his arms, letting the limbs slap against his stomach. Murphy just moaned in pain, only half lucid. With a tight professionalism, the paramedics lifted the Irish twin onto the gurney. One pair of hands snapped an oxygen mask over his face while another pair injected something for the pain while yet another pair slapped a handcuff around his wrist and joined him to the gurney. Amy just stared at the bright metal binding, her stomach twisting into knots.

Connor was next. She dutifully scooted away as the paramedics lifted him onto his own gurney. He didn't look at her anymore. As they injected morphine into his system, he sighed and turned his head away. It was a sigh of surrender. Of sadness. Of pain.

That quiet rush of air past his teeth haunted her for the next week and a half. His face chased her in her dreams while she slept and guilt gnawed at her stomach day after day until she could take no more. A full two weeks after the brothers had been shoved into the pen, she was driven to tears, locked in a wooden box, hands clenched together.

There was a quiet sound of wood rushing away and then a dull thunk when it slammed home. She took a breath. "Bless me father, for I have sinned…" she said in a half choked voice. Tears prevented any further babbling of traditional phrasing and she simply waited for the soothing voice of the priest. Several seconds passed in silence and Amy peered up at the decorative wooden grate that separated her from God's messenger. She could see thick black hair and flashes of pale skin. Something smelled flowery, like perfume. Amy frowned.

"Well," came the slow, drawn out reply. The voice was thick and heavy with a southern accent that was most certainly not a priest but, in fact, a woman. Amy felt the stab of betrayal. The woman continued. "Sinned, have you?" the voice asked. "I would expect those boys have seen their fair share of sin."

Amy's pulse quickened. Boys? She knew? "Who are you?" she hissed.

The woman laughed. "I'm here to absolve you of your sin," she said with a good deal of importance. "I need a little help."

"Help with what?" Amy growled. The form on the other side of the confessional leaned very close to the grate and Amy could pick out pieces of a face.

The woman answered in a whisper that thrummed with excitement. "Freeing the Saints."


	2. March 11th

A/N: so because of the way this little fic goes in my head, I decided the easiest way to post chapters is to do so by date. We'll take this fic one day at a time ;) R&R as per usual. This is still a work in progress and I will never know when the next chapter will be posted - my apologies. Also, let me know if I'm ever not in character...Enjoy :)

* * *

_March 11th_

The ceiling paint was flaking. Not just pee-sized flakes but big friggin' plate sized sheets bubbling away and leaving white pitted dry wall to crumble down into the less then sanitary prison infirmary. This was the first thing he noticed. The second thing to burrow into his morphine saturated brain was how utterly repugnant the color of the flaking paint was – some sort of garish blue that was probably meant to be soothing…fifty friggin' years ago.

A full minute passed and Connor blinked. Slowly, in a very patient, non-obtrusive way, the world around him made itself known. Monitoring equipment hummed and beeped softly. There was the sound of three bodies breathing and it took him several seconds to recognize that one of those sets of husky lungs was his own. The two other breathers would be…

God, Murphy!

Connor shot upright then immediately fell back down with a handful of choice curses as the pain, which had been hovering beyond the barrier of morphine, was ranking claws down his body. "Mary, mother of God…" he muttered breathlessly.

"Hurts, don't it," came Murphy's lilting voice. Relief washed over Connor, dulling his pain again. His head lolled to the side, towards the voice of his brother.

"Murph…yer ok?" he croaked. His throat felt as though he'd been screaming for a while.

"Am I…damn, Conn, I've been shot arse number of times and yer askin' if I'm ok?"

Connor winced, guilt flashing heat along the back of his neck. "Sorry…" he muttered. Murphy sighed and closed his eyes.

"Aye, m'fine," he admitted. "Ya alright, yerself?"

Connor nodded. Murphy snorted and muttered something that started with 'bull' but Connor didn't catch the rest. All of the memories were starting to come back now. Shooting and killing and…Da. Then police and hospitals in handcuffs and falling asleep on the operating table. And now this. It clearly wasn't the hospital – they didn't often have bars on their windows. So that meant that he and his brother had been moved to the prison when they were still sedated.

"Romeo—"

"Over there," Murphy said, anticipating the question. Connor followed his brother's nod and saw the Mexican lying on the bed next to him. God, Romeo…Neck brace, oxygen mask. The stink of iodine was still clinging to his skin. But he was alive. Praise God, Romeo was still alive. And so was Murphy. Connor closed his eyes for a moment and muttered a prayer of thanks, his fingers moving in the traditional cross across his chest and shoulders. Then he paused.

"Da." Sadness distorted that one word and Connor felt the sting of tears.

Murphy just nodded. "Aye."

Silence.

Connor just wanted to curl up and mourn the loss of his father and get flaming drunk but… "Murph, we can't—"

"Aye."

It was too dangerous now. Now, more than ever, they needed to keep their wits about them. They could not afford to be hindered by grief. Any sort of distraction might prove to be deadly in such a hostile environment. Any number of these inmates might be connected to men that the Brothers killed. And you could be sure they'd be out for revenge…for blood.

Connor took a deep breath. His stomach screamed in pain as the diaphragm muscles stretched. He coughed – winced. "I need a feckin' smoke…"

Murphy snorted. "Good luck with that."

Pause.

"I can't believe we fecking survived that..." His voice was filled with wonder.

"We jumped from the damn ceiling! What the _hell_?!"

Connor chuckled, the sound coming out in a painful rasp. "Ding dong…" He looked over at the Mexican, a small smile of brotherly affection pulling up the corner of his mouth. He fervently wished that Romeo had been awake for that moment. It would have added some color to the situation. Exhaustion slapped him upside the head and yanked at his eyelids. He resisted it, not happy about sleeping in such a dangerous place with such a dreary looking future glaring at him from across the room. He heard Murphy muttering a prayer in Latin.

"Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio, contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium."

Conner nodded in a silent repeat of the prayer. He mumbled "amen" before finally letting his body slink back into slumber.


	3. March 28th

_March 28th_

Amy's head plunked down on the faux-wood formica tabletop in Jennie's Diner – a small hole-in-the-wall place in South Boston. She cradled it in folded arms and sighed. Stress had tied her back into a mass of knots. Not for the first time was she asking herself why she had come here. To save killers? That was the obvious answer that kept cropping up. But Amy firmly believed that this was not the answer to her madness.

No. She was here to turn them down. She had a good job and she wasn't about to ruin that by busting a trio of vigilantes out of prison. No way. Common sense told her this was a very bad idea. A very bad idea that would end in tears and blood and gnashing of teeth. Stupid stupid stupid.

Something of a particular fluidic weight slid across the table and stopped in front of her crossed wrists. She could smell the earthy, heady scent of hand-ground black coffee. It was a Costa Rican blend, if she were to guess correctly – not something that Jennie would be caught dead serving in her little diehard establishment which had been serving the same weak, tasteless coffee since the fifties. Amy did not move. She heard several someone's sliding into the pleather bench seat opposite her. The silence crawled by until it breeched awkwardness.

"Mrs. Dellaco?" The careful southern drawl ventured across the table. Right, of course. It was time to talk. This was why she was here.

Amy's hand flitted up a few seconds before the rest of her body followed. She offered a curt smile to the black haired woman and reached for the cup, decisively curling each finger around the brown 55% recycled paper scald guard sleeve thing. There were two other men on either side of the woman who had called herself Eunice before. All three persons were looking at her as they expected her to start singing and dancing.

"Mrs. Dellaco—"

"Amy. Call me Amy."

Eunice smiled. "Amy, I'd like to introduce you to Detectives Duffy and Dolly. They're…associates of mine. They are privy to the situation we currently find ourselves in so you can speak freely."

Amy nodded but still didn't say anything. The waitress appeared and took an order for the pancake breakfast from one of the detectives. Eunice waited until the woman was out of hearing range before she continued speaking. "Have you thought about what I said last week?"

A snort of unamused laughter bubbled in her coffee as Amy considered the question. Had she thought about it? How could she not? A week ago, this woman was purposing that Amy help her bust the Saints out of Hoag. Eunice hadn't pressed the issue immediately but left the idea to fester for a full seven days…probably because Amy had flat out refused the first time. For days, Amy had been flip-flopping between helping and not helping. Nightmares stole sleep from her, plaguing her with images of bleeding, broken Irishmen.

But ultimately, it was against the law. Not just like 'jay-walking' against the law, but 'get caught and spend life in Hoag yourself' against the law. And for what?

"Amy?"

She blinked. "Yes, right. Sorry."

"It's ok. Have you thought about it?" the woman pressed.

"Uh…yeah…" Amy rubbed her forehead. "I really…I don't think I should do this."

The two detectives shared a troubled look. Eunice just leaned back and looked at her for a long moment. "Well now. That wasn't exactly the response I was expectin'," she said.

"I'm sorry. Really, I am," Amy insisted. "I promise I won't tell anyone about this. I'll keep quiet." She took a sip of coffee and averted her eyes from the trio of uneasy stares.

"Amy, do you realize what sort of position that puts us in?"

Amy nodded. "I know, I'm sorry."

"And do you realize what sort of position that puts those three boys in?"

Here, she stiffened and looked up at Eunice. "Look, it's not like I'm happy about them being behind bars but there's nothing I can do about it." She made a face. "And why the hell should I care about them anyway? I mean, sure it's sad that they got caught after all the good they did but it's not like I know them or anything. They mean _nothing_ to me. I have to look out for myself and my husband, thank you very much. And it's really not like I can _actually_ do anything for you. I don't work in the prison. I don't work out of the precinct. I'm SWAT. There is no plausible reason for me to be anywhere near the prison. What the hell can I do?!"

Her voice had been steadily rising in volume and hysteria as the mental tirade exploded out of her mouth. Amy had nearly been yelling by the time she'd finished, earning a curious stare from their waitress. Dolly was wide eyed. Duffy's mouth was hanging open and it would have been comical if she didn't feel so frantic. Eunice blinked.

"It seems like you've thought about this quite a bit," Eunice said with an amused tone. She leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Now, you're going to listen to what I have to say. First, let me tell you what you will do for us. You are going to find your long lost cousin is suddenly in prison and you are going to visit him every chance you get and while you do, you are going to be our eyes on the inside. I can't show my face anywhere near there and the detectives here are too connected to the case to get any closer to the Saints without raising suspicion." She reached into a big black bag and pulled out a file, setting it on the table and tapping her carefully manicured fingernails against it. "As for _why_ you're helping us, this is why..." She slid the file across the table and Amy just stared at it until it brushed her fingers, then she flipped it open.

It was a copy of the Saints file. But more attention grabbing then the thick stack of charges against them was the thicker stack of glossy photos nestled in-between the manila pages. Amy frowned as she leafed through the photos of dead, sometimes mutilated, bodies: men, women, children, burned masses of unidentifiable flesh. Her stomach twisted. "What is this?" she hissed.

"Victims," Eunice said simply.

"Of the Saints?"

"Of course not. These are the victims of the Mafiosos our boy's took down. See these women here? They didn't do a thing 'sept marry men who owed Yakavetta money. See those kids right there? Lapazzi took those sweet babies from their mamma's in Mexico and was sellin' them as sex slaves to pedophiles." Eunice spoke calmly, as if she were just telling a story. "Of course, now that Lapazzi is dead, they'll just find someone else to take his place…unless there was someone willing to put a stop to it."

"I get it," Amy said quietly. She closed the file. "But you said it yourself, they'll only find more evil men to fill the shoes of those already dead. There are only two Saints. They won't live forever so—"

"So what's the point?" Eunice interrupted. "I don't think you _do_ get it." Her southern lilt took on a hard edge. The woman pulled a photo from the bottom of the stack and handed it to Amy. The girl was maybe fifteen. Her glossy eyes were wide and her pupils were wider as she stared uncomprehendingly at the camera. Her hair and makeup were messy and ridiculous. Her mouth hung open.

Immediately, tears started to well up in Amy's eyes. The girls name was Marla. The girl was her sister. She'd gone missing over ten years ago then turned up dead in a dumpster. They'd found the killer. He'd walked.

Another picture nudged her fingers and Amy only glanced once at the pale, bruised skin that contrasted sharply with the black garbage bags before she slammed the first photo on top of the second. "Stop! I don't need a reminder of my sisters corpse, thank you."

"Yakavetta's men—"

"I don't care about Papa Joe or his lackeys! Just stop! Ok?" Amy rubbed angrily at the tears curling down her cheeks. Eunice let the tears flow for several unabated moments before speaking again, gentler this time.

"Those boys have saved sisters and daughters and brothers and sons. They aren't monsters, Amy. You have been close enough to look into their eyes and feel their pain. You tell me: do they deserve to be locked in a room of murders and rapists? They aren't going to last a week in the general population."

Amy just stared at her, eyes wide. She got a flash of Connor MacManus then – staring at her with his pretty blue eyes. She imagined a gang of criminals circled around him and his brother, waiting to tear those blue eyes from their sockets. She shivered. Something gnawed at her stomach and seemed to suck the air out of her lungs. Amy didn't realize she was still crying until tears splashed on her hand. Duffy and Dolly looked uncomfortable. Apparently, a sobbing woman wasn't exactly what they were prepared for. She took a deep shaky breath.

"Fine…fine, what do you want me to do?" she asked in a dull, weary voice.

Eunice smiled at her. "That's my girl," she murmured. "Right now, I want you to go home and tell your husband about your cousin who is in prison, Jake McCarson. Now the boys won't be—"

"Wait. My cousin is actually in prison?" Amy asked, eyebrows scrunched up. He was a third cousin, once removed, but she still remembered his name from McCarson family reunions – usually spoken in hushed statements going something like 'did you hear what Jake did now?'

"Yes, dear, he's in prison. We wouldn't want you to lie now, would we? Now, as I was saying, the brothers won't be released into the general population for another three weeks. It should be two weeks but the warden is taking pity on them." She pulled out some papers and a pen. "You're going to start making a habit of being at the prison and while you're there, you are going to take note of everything."

Amy nodded. "I don't see how that's very helpful," she admitted.

"It will be, eventually. Just trust me. Right now, the Saints need all the friends they can get."


	4. March 31st

A/N: Sorry that this chapter took so long. I've been struggling with the actual plan to get them out but I think I have it now. If you have any awesome suggestions for how to bust these guys out, drop me a note.

Disclaimer: I don't know how the prison system works so please forgive me for things that are inaccurate.

* * *

_March31st_

Murphy flashed the infirmary doctor a smile as she passed them by. Kathy Bishop was a cute blond with more grit then the average man and she had a soft spot for them. She always made sure they were comfortable enough, whether that meant they needed more morphine or less harassment from the other prisoner patients. She was a sweetheart, a bright spot to look at in the gloom since the three of them had been moved into a larger recovery room which housed the prisoners stupid enough to get into serious trouble – getting shanked or beaten or burned with boiling baby oil… The men in here were friggin' monsters.

"What do you suppose the chances are that they'd let us have some guns in here?" Murphy asked his brother.

"I'd say you'd have a better chance finding yer brain first," Connor said offhandedly. He had his left arm wrapped around a stolen jar of cotton balls and was throwing them, one by one, at a sleeping Romeo.

"Shut it, rope boy," Murphy growled. Now Connor grinned.

"Whatever ya say, Rambo."

"If I weren't a feckin' invalid right now, I'd punch you in the face!"

In response, Connor suddenly turned his next cotton ball on Murphy and it bounced off his forehead. He glared at Connor for a full minute before settling down again.

"That'd be something though, wouldn't it?" he asked.

"You punchin' me in the face?"

"No, you eejit, getting guns!" He said the last bit a little too loud and caught the startled glares from some of the closer patients.

"It'd be like shootin' fish ina barrel," Connor concurred. "Solve a lota problems in here."

"How far d'ya think we'd get before they overwhelmed us?"

Connor considered this for a moment while he launched a very well aimed cotton ball at Romeo's ear. "I think…it'd depend on how many bullet's we had. 's not like they could shoot back."

"So what if we had an unlimited supply of bullets? What then?" Murphy pressed. Connor looked over at him and raised an eyebrow.

"Do ya have some sort of secret that I should know about, dear brother?"

"Just answer the question!"

"Unlimited bullets…"

"Aye."

Connor sniffed. "Well then, I'd say we'd be able to kill every last one of them."

"Really?"

"Oh, aye. Of course, that's only if we get decent coverage and they don't overwhelm us. But I'd say we'd have a good chance of killin' 'em all." Connor rubbed one of the fluffy white balls between his fingers. "Now, where's this magical gun genie of yers?"

"Shut it, it was just a thought," Murphy muttered. Connor looked thoughtful and then nodded.

"It was a good thought," he agreed.

As they settled into a companionable silence, Murphy watched a new prisoner was being escorted into the infirmary by one of the guards. The man was bloodied and limped as he walked. As he passed, the big black man locked eyes with Murphy and grinned. It was sort of a sick, despite grin – the sort of grin someone gives when they're about to detonate an explosive…

"Sh—"

The prisoner suddenly jerked free of the guard and sprinted towards the Brothers. Murphy shot upright. Several someones were shouting. The guards lunged for the escapee but their fingers clutched at empty air. Murphy could see each gritty detail of his face as the man as the distance was closed between them. Instinct moved his hands and Murphy felt a twinge of panic as he slapped at the empty space where his holster should have been. Something metallic flashed in the black man's palm. His mouth was open in a scream that did not register in Murphy's ears. And then…then a nearly empty jar of cotton balls conked the man in the head and he dropped like a sack of bricks.

A small pack of guards descended upon the downed would-be attacker. They had him cuffed and hauled away within seconds, leaving a stunned infirmary in their wake. Murphy blinked. Slowly, the excited chatter from other patients filled the empty air. Looking over at his brother, Murphy saw his own posture reflected in Connor's tense, statue-still form, one foot out of the bed and the other ready to follow. The Brothers shared a grim look. That was too close for comfort…and things would only be getting closer.

"Are you guys ok?"

Murphy looked up sharply to see running towards them. She pushed some locks of blond hair out of her face.

"Aye, we're fine," Murphy said.

She nodded but moved to check them out anyway. "Good…Nice shot, Connor."

"Thanks."

Bishop gently peeled back bandages and prodded healing wounds. Murphy didn't realize until now that he'd torn some stitches when he'd sat up so quickly.

"You're not fine, Murphy," Bishop said in an annoyed tone. She seemed to produce a needle and thread out of thin air. "Hold still."

"I'm fine," Murphy insisted. He winced as the needle passed swiftly through his skin.

"Sure you are. I'm moving you back to the recovery room," she said simply.

"We'll be fine," Connor insisted.

"It's not safe—"

"It'll never _be_ safe," Murphy growled. A flash of defiance lit up Dr. Bishop's eyes.

"Don't interrupt me," she ordered in a no-nonsense voice. "This is my infirmary and you'll do what I say, understand?"

Murphy just stared at her. Connor snickered out something that sounded like "yes ma'am". Kathy gave him one last glare before stalking away to torture other patients. It was then that he and Connor heard movement beside them. A hand drunkenly swatted at an oxygen mask as the Mexican attached to it slowly came back to the land of the conscious.

"Romeo!" Murphy exclaimed happily.

"Welcome back, sleepin' beauty," Connor teased.

Romeo groaned and blinked lethargically, shaking off the drowsiness.

"How're you feeling?" Murphy asked.

"Like I've been shot. How do you think I feel, genius? What…what the…damnit! Where the hell did all these cotton balls come from?"

Connor nearly fell off the bed laughing.

* * *

XXXXXX

* * *

Amy sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. Mike was still sprawled out on his side of the bed, his shaggy blond hair sticking up all over the place. He always looked so young when he was sleeping – something she'd never been able to figure out. Maybe he visited the fountain of youth in his dreams.

She took her time showering and dressing, trying to stretch out her Saturday morning so it would last as long as possible. By the time she was ready for the day, Mike was in the kitchen, making coffee, still in his boxers and a shabby black tee-shirt. He smiled at her and it made her heart feel lighter somehow. She thought back to the conversation from last night.

"_I just don't understand. Why do you need to go see him? Do you even know Jake?" Mike wasn't yelling, not really. She could tell that he was trying very hard to understand and was only getting frustrated. _

"_It's just…something I need to do," she insisted. "I just need to do this, Mike. Is that enough for you?"_

"_But why do you need to do it?" Dinner dishes clacked loudly in the soapy water. _

_Amy hesitated. "I think…I don't know. I want to connect to him." It was a lie. She didn't care about Jake at all but it wasn't like she could tell Mike that the real reason behind her prison visit was to help the Saints. She was not going to get him involved._

_Mike didn't press the issue. He rubbed her arms. "Ok…fine."_

She loved him for his acceptance and despised herself for lying. He didn't help her guilt when he wrapped her up in a hug now.

"Good luck with Jake," he said softly. She nodded against his chest and he let her go, pushing a travelers mug into her hands and kissing her lightly. "Have fun."

She forced a grin onto her face. "Oh yeah…we'll have tons of fun. I'll meet you at the Melt for lunch."

The drive to Hoag felt faster than it should have been. She parked in the visitor's space next to the door and received a friendly smile from the woman behind the receptionist's desk. After filling out a stack of paperwork, she found herself sitting at a blue table that was bolted to the floor in a room of similar tables which had lovers, fathers, best friends visiting with the members of society. She watched a three year old toddler reaching across a table for his father while mom smiled away. Amy wondered what the man had done to be in here while his son grew up without him. It was sad.

Jake shuffled in and sat down opposite her with a particular heaviness. The guard following him shackled his feet to the floor and stepped back. Amy smiled. Jake just stared at her. He ran his hands through his curly black hair and sighed.

"Well?" he finally said. Amy blinked.

"Well what?"

"Well, what do you want?" Jake pressed. He looked suspicious and Amy frowned – was it really so out of place to have a family member visiting?

"I…I wanted to see how you were doing," Amy finally answered.

Jake snorted a laugh, his eyes flicking around the room. "Really? Why do I find that so hard to believe?"

She felt a sting of guilt. "Come on, Jake, you're family. Why wouldn't I want to see how you're doing?" she challenged. Jake fixed her with a knowing stare.

"Amy, if you cared anything about me, you would've been here years ago. Why are you here?"

"Because I…I feel guilty," Amy admitted – and it wasn't a complete lie. "Because you need some family right now. Because I want to help you." She tried to smile but it must have come out wrong because Jake started laughing at her.

"Help me. You want to help me. What a very touching thing to say, Amy. Did you plan that the whole ride up here?" He snickered. She frowned.

"Well I did want to help until you started mocking me. Geeze, Jake, no wonder no one wants to come see you." She shook her head. "This was a mistake…" She stood up to leave.

"They aren't in gen pop yet," Jake said as she turned her back. Amy froze.

"Who?" she asked without turning around.

"The Saints. That's why you're here, right? You want to know about the Saints." Jake leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Amy caught his smug face as she looked back. She arched an eyebrow and crossed her own arms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the guards uninterested eyes scanning elsewhere.

"You done insulting me yet?"

Jake just grinned. "It's ok. Most of the civvies in this room are here for information on the Saints." He suddenly leaned forward, putting his elbows on the blue tabletop. "But ok. Whatever. Just sit down."

"Jake—"

"Sit." He stared at her. "It's the least you could do."

She pursed her lips and thunked down on the seat. Jake just looked at her, a self-satisfied grin cocking up the corner of his mouth. A silence that was entirely too awkward for her filled the space between them. Amy cleared her throat. "So…what exactly did you do this time?"

"You really wanna know? Bank robbery." His eyes sparkled.

"You're kidding…"

"No, I swear. I robbed a bank."

"You didn't…shoot anyone, did you?"

Jake wrinkled his nose. "No."

Amy sighed in relief. "Ok, good."

"I don't hurt people, Amy."

"No, you just steal from them."

He grinned, jumping on the chance to explain things from his point of view. "Exactly. See all of the things you own, it's all junk. It's all meaningless. You've heard the term 'one man's trash is another man's treasure'? Well I say that a man's treasure is the world's trash. It's all gonna end up in some dump heap somewhere, rotting. People need to see past their stuff."

"So, what, you just relieve them of their earthly burdens? Take it all on yourself so they don't suffer?" she asked sarcastically.

He just grinned wider. "Someone has to save New York from materialism. Is it so wrong that I take a few artifacts from the Natural History Museum?"

"I thought you said you robbed a bank."

"Yeah. That too."

She shook her head, grinning despite herself. "You are messed up, Jake."

"Yeah well, I think you'll find we're all mad here." He gestured around the room at the inmates. "My turn," he said suddenly. "What's your interest in the boys from Bean Town?"

"Good question," she said pensively, staring off at the far wall. It crossed her mind that she shouldn't be telling him this but she wanted to…very very badly. She needed to share at least part of the secret, especially to the man she would be getting to know. And Eunice didn't say she couldn't tell Jake…

"I never thought you were this much of a busybody," Jake mused. "I mean, you always kept to yourself at family things. Amy McCarson never cared about what us bad kids were doing."

"I was there when they were arrested," she blurted.

His eyebrows crawled up. "Really?"

She nodded. "I literally kept Connor MacManus from falling over before…before they came to cuff him."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

He frowned. "What exactly do you do?"

"SWAT officer," she answered.

"That's actually cool."

She shrugged. "It's interesting. Pays the bills…barely." Amy smiled. "What did you do? Before you were arrested."

"Amy, I'm a career thief."

"Oh."

He snorted a laugh. "Look at us. Same blood, different ends of the legal spectrum."

Amy made a face. "For now," she muttered.

"What?" Jake was staring again. Dang, he missed _nothing_. Amy ran her fingers through her hair, glancing nervously at the guards.

"Nothing."

He was smirking, following her eyes as they raced around the room, skipping from uniform to uniform. "Right. Nothing."

"I'm serious."

He raised his hands up. "Ok, sorry."

She glanced at her cell phone. "Hey, I gotta run."

"You just got here," Jake pointed out. Something in his tone surprised her and Amy could have sworn that Jake was actually disappointed that she was leaving.

"I'll be back next week," she promised.

He smiled but it wasn't exactly a smile that said he believed her. "Great. I'll be here, as always."

"See ya, Jake."

"Sure."

Amy gave him a stern look as she stood and gathered her purse. "I'm serious."

"Yeah, ok," Jake insisted. "See you then."

Amy nodded curtly, turned, and walked away.


End file.
